


The Perfect Riddle

by LaeliaLenore



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mission Fic, Post-Skyfall, bloody big ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaeliaLenore/pseuds/LaeliaLenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one asked any questions when M almost immediately sent 007 back into to the field after the unauthorized mission, Skyfall.<br/>No one thought to consider Bond’s fitness for the field – or lack thereof.<br/>No one worried that maybe the aging agent is getting too old for this job or that maybe the job is getting too old for this world.</p><p>No one except Q, that is.  What first starts as his bid to aid his agent in any way he can turns into a desperate struggle to solve the riddle of what could just be a cleverly disguised conspiracy and keep the man of his dreams alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Melt Away

**Author's Note:**

> A story told mostly through a series of vignettes of varying lengths, little moments of Q's life as it were. This is a plot driven tale seeking to address some problems I found and themes I wanted to explore.

007 disappeared shortly after the conclusion of the unauthorized mission that had been unofficially but fittingly dubbed _Skyfall_.  He returned to MI6 in quite the same state that he had been picked up from the chapel in, was quickly debriefed in M’s office and left without another word.

Q sat at his desk alone in Q Branch and watched Bond talk with the new M through the old M’s spotless glass office walls.  The new M sat where the old M should have sat and drank her liquor.  The new M was giving order the old M should’ve been giving.  The new M replaced the old M.  The old M was dead and it was killing them all.

Bond was unable to sit or look at anything save for the ceiling or floor.  The little shot glass M had wordlessly handed him when he had first entered the room had been long emptied and in danger of being crushed by an encasement of thick, white-knuckled, blood and grime coated fingers.  Q knew it was the only way to stop the shaking, the shaking that said everything, that needed to stop.

The new M seemed as drawn and tense as Bond, perhaps even more so but Q didn’t know how that was possible.  The two men seemed to be entirely made of dark circles and blood-shot eyes and tight lips and networks of deep canyon wrinkles held together only by threads sheer dignity and determination and that last shot of whiskey.  At least M wasn’t covered in gunpowder and dirt and blood and God knows what else.

He watched their lips move fast and deliberate and emotionless and wished he could read lips or at least tap M’s office without fear of being sacked and detained for attempted treason.  Bond forced himself to look at M only once and asked him something.  M nodded over his knitted fingers without a second’s hesitation and leaned forward to put some more weight on those bony elbows resting on the desk.  M said something curtly, Bond nodded, and he was dismissed.

Bond was determined as he walked down the halls of MI6.  Single-minded.  He had an objective and nothing could distract him now.  His determination opened doors and parted crowds and once he had disappeared from Q’s line of sight, Q refocused on the lone figure of M rubbing his fingers into his forehead and leaning back into his desk chair like all he wanted was to fall backwards, collide with the floor and melt, melt, melt.

Q wished he could melt away too.  It had been a hard week.


	2. Take Care of Himself

No one mentioned that Bond was missing but they all noticed.  Q thought of trying to track him down himself but M wasn’t concerned so he figured he needn’t be concerned either.  He had weapons to develop and Intel security to bulk up and a department to run and a few agents in the field to watch over and no desire to add keeping tabs on Bond on top of everything else.  And Bond deserved some privacy if nothing else.

Still.  Q went to work every day with a little part of himself hoping that 007 would have appeared again then worrying when he hadn’t and denying said part even existed.

Eve Moneypenny was promoted to M’s secretary within a couple days of Bond dropping off the face of the earth again.  Since the majority of Q’s latest projects were either cutting-edge reforms of the standard MI6 security or highly dangerous new weapon designs, he found himself in regular need of M’s clearance and spending quite a bit of time chatting with Eve as he waited for M to have a spare minute.

Eve was the only person who mentioned Bond’s vanishing act.

“You don’t know where he is, do you?” she asked in barely more than a whisper.

“No idea.  Hasn’t M clued you in?” he drawled, sitting on the corner of her desk and thumbing through the file he had brought for M’s review.

“What?”

“Well, M was the one who authorized his little excursion, wasn’t he?  Otherwise he’d be in a panic and finding him would currently be our number priority.  Instead he’s ignoring it.  Obviously he must know where he is.  Or at least know when he’s coming back.  I guess it must be quite confidential if even you’ve been kept in the dark.”

“Shouldn’t we… I dunno.” She combed her fingers through her tightly curled hair.  “What if he’s in trouble?  Shouldn’t we be keeping an eye just in case?”

“He can take care of himself.”

“But he’s our best agent–”

“Exactly.  He’s a big boy and doesn’t need a babysitter.  Don’t worry, he’ll be fine and he’ll come back when he’s good and ready.”

Then M buzzed Eve telling her to let Q into his office and they didn’t speak of the disappearance of Bond again.

Eve’s worries emphasised the sliver of doubt in Q’s otherwise confident resolve: what if Bond really couldn’t take care of himself?  He could tell himself Bond could as much as liked, but deep down, he knew he didn’t really believe it.  Every day he came to work hoping Bond had turned up during the night and was well and ready to return to the field and every day he was disappointed and just a little worried that maybe he would never come back.  Because everyone still seemed to think they needed the old-fashioned agent and what ever would ever they do if they lost their bloody big ship before its time?


	3. Fall Apart

“He’s back.” Eve’s smile was radiant and she looked healthier than she had since before _Skyfall_.  She sat down on his desk and he squinted up at her, foggy from concentrating on his coding.

“Excuse me?”

“Bond.  He’s back.  He’s fine.  He’s just met with M and has gotten a new assignment and seems perfectly back to normal and itching to go, just like you said.”

"I didn’t… Did he mention just what he’s been up to these past few weeks?”

“No, didn’t say, but does it matter?  He’s back!”

She was staring at him, her brow screwed up and her mouth now marred with a frown.  She was upset with him.  She must have expected some other kind of reaction from him but he all he could muster was shock.

“Eve, this is all really great, it’s just… I…” He pushed chair back and laced his fingers through his too-long hair.  “I’m sorry, I need a minute.”

He strode quickly out of Q-Branch and away from Eve.  He needed to think.  He needed a smoke.

Why was M already sending Bond back into the field?  He hadn’t been fit for field work before _Skyfall_ and there was no way he could handle it now.  Greif and alcoholism would have only worsened his psychological wellbeing, crippled his reasoning and decision making skills and rendered him unable to cope with basic stressors, making him an absolute menace to himself and all those involved if put back into action.  The fact he had somehow managed to make it out of this most recent mission alive had been against all odds, a bloody _miracle_ for lack of a better word, and could not be replicated.  What was M thinking?  Was he trying to get Bond killed?  Or compromise the security of MI6 and all of England?

Logically speaking the only conclusion was that M either had it out for Bond and MI6 or was actually insane and Q could fathom neither.  Insanity would have made it impossible for M to have advanced his career to this kind of pinnacle without detection and detainment and betrayal to his mother country just didn’t fit what Q knew about him, Mallory the Patriot.  Whatever M’s reasons, this was mad and this was going to get Bond killed surely, if not bring the rest of MI6 down with him.

He pulled his lighter and pack of cigarettes out of his pocket as he pushed open a door to a stairwell that led to above-ground London.  It was damp and he could hear the echo of passing cars and puddles on the street above.  He shakily lit his lighter, casting an eerie glow in narrow stairwell and across his bone-like fingers.  He lit the cigarette and welcomed the return of the gloom as he sucked on it as long as he could, threatening to burn it out.  He could feel the smoke coiling in his lungs and the nicotine rushing through his veins.  Tranquillity.  The definition of calm.

As Bond’s Quartermaster, it was his upmost duty to do all within his power to protect his agent.  If M was sending Bond out again against all reason, it was his responsibility to bring him back alive and one he would uphold.  Bond would not die.  Not on his watch.

He quickly reduced the cigarette to nothing more than a stub and crushed it under his shoe before turning to go back inside.  The termination of the obsolete position of field agent could not come soon enough in his opinion and the sentiment of keeping them around was tiring.  He was sick of trying to keep them alive when he and his department could just as easily achieve the exact same objective with virtually no risk to personnel or property.

Q had hoped the new M would be young enough to initiate the transition into the Twenty-first Century, albeit over a decade late, but he was thoroughly disappointed.  The man was just as attached to Bond and the other remaining field agents as the last M and showed no intentions of terminating the program.

Q had nearly gotten back to Q Branch when he was suddenly overtaken by a shadow.  He seized the entity by its shirt and slammed it against the concrete wall before realizing it was only Bond, holding his hands submissively above his shoulders.

Q hastily released the front of Bond’s suit and took a step back, both straightening their clothes and eyeing each other apprehensively.  Someone had foolishly tried to cover up the fading bruises on his cheekbones, the unshaven face, bloodshot eyes, dark circles, the mess that Bond was with a perfect, tailored suit.  A fresh paintjob doesn’t make something new again. 

“007.” Q said finally.

“Q.”

“Good to see you again.”

“Likewise.”

“It seems as though I will be maintaining my position as your Quartermaster.”

"Apparently.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“As am I. If you’ll excuse me…”

Q stayed where he was as he watched Bond walk away.  He was limping, just ever so slightly favouring his right leg so that no one would notice unless they knew what to look for.  So much effort went into each step he that took just to move one foot in front of the other, to make it look like there was any strength or determination left.  Any of the old Bond left.  Q could practically see it draining out of him as he hobbled down the hallway.  The more he watched, the more likely it seemed Bond would just collapse, break into jagged pieces and dust that blows away and fade into nothing more than a memory.

He was going to get killed in the field.  No question about it.

Their bloody big ship was falling apart and Q wanted nothing more than to prop it up for another few days and extend its hard-won delusion of glory but all he could do was watch.


	4. Lifeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly positive reaction, I must say, which was quite lovely considering my apprehension upon posting as this it is really the first of its kind. Much appreciation for the kudos, subs, views, whathaveyou. Don't be scared to comment as well, I don't shoot to kill.
> 
> Side note for the curious - I do plan to include fluff and smut and that sort of thing eventually. Have patience. Everything in due time, my friends.

Two days later, Bond was still limping.  Q could only see it from this distance because he knew it was there.  He wondered if M had noticed.  M had watched Bond climb the stairs up to his office after all, with significantly less vigour than ever before and maybe even a little bit winded after.

But M was obviously either completely oblivious or simply unperturbed because he handed over the sealed CONFIDENTIAL file detailing the specifics of the mission right away.  Bond gave a single nod and scanned the contents of the file as he moved down the stairs towards Q’s department.

It was a routine mission in Cambodia to shut down a drug cartel that had recently begun to stir up trouble by delving into the practice of ship raiding.  MI6 had decided that the sixth and most recent British cargo ship to be attacked was the last straw and wanted this particular ringleader found and detained.  Nothing too fancy or complicated and it shouldn’t be too dangerous as long as everything went according to plan and for all that Q was thankful.  Maybe M did know what he was doing.

Bond’s eyes lit up with excitement as Q opened the little black box filled with his equipment.

“You’re familiar with these two: a pistol coded to your palm and a distress signal transmitter.  Additionally, you’ll be equipped with a radio communicator so I can direct you from here and this watch.  Besides the usual time-telling capabilities and a nice little compass for extra measure, pressing this button here opens the face of the watch to give you access to this.”  Q did so and pulled out a small green-tinted capsule.   “This is a highly explosive miniature bomb capable of turning a room larger than this one and everything inside it to ash.  Just lightly squeeze to activate the detonator.  It’s roughly one eighth of my quarterly budget so make it count and don’t lose it.  As usual Bond, I expect you to return everything make to me fully intact with minimal damages.”

Bond smirked, one side of his mouth lifting up and he gave a snort as picked up the case.  “We’ll see about that, Q.”

Q swallowed as he watched him go.  He had neglected to mention that the watch also doubled as a vitals reader and a GPS so Q would be aware of his agent’s precise location and health at all times.  Assuming he was wearing it and hadn’t broken it yet.  Q could only hope the explosive could be adequate incentive for him to take good care of his only lifeline.


	5. A Professional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing a bit of research to determine Bond's date of birth and found that according to John Pearson's _James Bond: The Authorized Biography of 007_ , Bond was born November the 11, 1920 which puts him at 92 years old today. I've always pictured him in his late forties/fifties simply due to the fact that the physical limitations of someone older than that age range renders them inapplicable of performing in the field. Having him be in his early nineties whilst on _Skyfall_ is just ridiculous and it makes 00Q really creepy. Ergo, I am ignoring Pearson's year of birth and substituting it with my own and do not feel bad about it in the slightest because as far as I can tell Flemming never actually specified Bond's birth date.  
>  And speaking of birthdays: Happy Birthday to me and futhermore Happy Alaska Day.

Q stood as his desk at the front of the Q Branch office watching the little green blip that was Bond leave the airport in Cambodia on the giant screen at the front of the room.  His vitals and precise geographic location were nearly inconspicuously located on the upper left hand corner of the screen.  The 007 projected in the opposite corner suddenly turned white, indicating he had switched on his communicator.

“Do you read me, 007?” Q asked into his own ear piece.

“Loud and clear, Q.” Bond’s voice and loud and confident over the speakers.

Q swallowed and the bundle of nerves in his stomach flipped.  Bond was a professional.  He could handle this.  Everything would be just fine.

"Excellent.  Right, now first things first…”


	6. Minimal Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, much appreciation for kudos and comments and the like. I made an attempt at humor in this one but I am much better at writing poetic narratives then implementing the art of comedy. Ah, well, se la vie.

“I thought I told you _minimal damage_ , 007.” Q said in response to the metal and plastic remains of the pistol and communicator Bond dumped onto his desk.  He looked up momentarily from his tablet screen to see Bond pressing a hand over a steadily growing red stain on his arm.  “And you really ought to go see Medical about that.”

Bond looked at his arm.  “Just a scratch.”

Q sighed but refrained from comment.  Just a scratch from a machete.  Ridiculous.

“Sorry about your stuff,” Bond said after a moment.

“Yes, smashing the communicator was quite inconvenient.”  _Inconvenient_ here meaning the most panic stricken hour of Q’s life thus far while he obsessively watched the little green dot and heart monitor on the screen for proof that his agent was indeed still alive until finally the distress signal was activated, indicating 007 had neutralized the target and was no longer in immediate danger.  Q did manage to recognize the rare and highly coveted, out-of-character apology through half-hearted irritation and deep-seated relief and was a bit taken aback.  Somewhat worried, really, but he opted to write it off as a fluke and ignore it.  “I’m already working on a more streamlined designed will be more apt to stay on during hand-to-hand combat and less likely to get knocked off and smashed in the underfoot.”

“So you’re saying the design is to blame for the damage, not me?” Bond was smirking again.

“I’m saying I shouldn’t have to puppy-proof my designs so certain agents don’t break them.”

Bond pulled a chair over with his foot and sat down heavily next to Q.  He didn’t bother looking up from his work and they sat in silence.

“Alright, what do you want, Bond?”

“You okay?”

Q nearly dropped his tablet in shock.  James Bond was concerned for someone else? He must have heard wrong. “Sorry?”

“You seem… dunno… _tense_ , I suppose.  You okay?”

“I’m fine.  My agent has just returned from a successful mission with limited damages, it’s been a good day.  Now, you go get that looked after.  You’re acting funny and I won’t have you bleeding out right here in Q Branch.”

“You sure you’re fine?”

“Yes.  Quite.  Now do as I say and go to Medical.”

Bond stood, laughing quietly and adjusting his grip on his cut arm.  “Alright.”  Q returned to his tablet and was shocked when he heard Bond’s voice from the doorway.  “Take it easy, Q.”

“Get out of here, you git!”  He watched Bond leave and was pleasantly surprised when he did seem to be moving in the general direction of the Medical Department.  It was about time Bond started listening to someone else’s advice for his own good before he actually did end up bleeding out.


	7. Only the Best

Q woke up to the damp grey light of dawn creeping in through his sitting room windows, half-falling off his sofa where he had simply collapsed no more than a few hours prior without even bothering to take off his coat or shoes.  He stood and began pacing his sparse, book- and technology-filled flat, wrapping himself tightly in his own arms and trying to breathe.

He had dreamt Bond had been cut again.  Or maybe shot, it was hard to tell.  Either way, he was drowning in a pool of his own blood which was pouring out of his innumerable wounds at an astonishing rate and all he could do was lie there and cough and cry out for someone to help – had it been for Q?  He couldn’t remember now – on the dirty floorboards of an undisclosed location and he was powerless and Q was powerless and he just simply died.

Blood blood blood, rusty iron and thick everywhere he looked, on the walls, on the floor, in his shoes, in his sink, pouring out of his books.  He closed his eyes and all he could see was red.

Body armour.  He needed to design some kind of thin body armour that could be worn as an undershirt and would protect against handheld blades.  Perhaps it could double as a heating and cooling mechanism as well to further assist Bond.  Yes, perfect.

Q seized his messenger bag from where it had slipped off his shoulder the night before and pulled out his tablet.  He would have the design ready by the next time Bond went out into the field, or so help him Bond would not be going out at all.  Only the best would do for his agents.


	8. The Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Right, so I'm not a scientist. Obviously. I'm sorry the theory behind Q's design is probably entirely inaccurate but I really don't care and if anyone should like to educate me about the latest and greatest in body Armour, but all means, educate me! Or tell me I'm right and a genus and all that. As always, thanks for the kudos and comments, my dearies.~~  
>  EDIT: This vignette is now factually correct.

Q held up the freshly completed shirt for Bond to see, grinning like an idiot.  Bond definitely seemed interested by its metallic silver colour and he took it between his thumb and two fingers, smiling at the texture.

“It’s made of entirely of carbon fibres.  Carbon fibre is ideal because it’s as strong as steel but light-weight and it resists corrosion better than any other element currently known to man.  Insulation and ventilation make this shirt the ideal clothing in both warm and cold environments and while it is not bullet proof, it can protect you from a blow of average force from a hand-held bladed weapon.  While it will protect you from most blows, you will still be subject to bruising.  I plan to design some long-johns of the same material for total-body protection and hope to move the model past the prototype phase and into production before your next mission.”

Bond still smiled but Q could see it was fake when he looked up at him with cold eyes.  His eyes gave everything away.  “Well, you don’t have to rush.  M said I won’t be getting another mission until the end of the month.”

Bond was trying to hide his absolute devastation at the prospect of not getting another assignment for such a length of time with little success and Q wanted to punch himself for the momentary relief he felt at the news.  That man could kill with a single look.  He was killing Q.

“Well.  Um…” If only he could find the words to make it better.  “That’s rather unfortunate, isn’t it?  Best to keep occupied, I’d say.  If you happen to ever get bored, don’t hesitate to come see me.  Take care of some bloody alley cats for me if you’d like.  You know, quite loud.  Keep knocking over my bins.  Wouldn’t mind if you took out some frustration and got some target practise, if you know what I mean.”

Bond laughed.  “I’ll keep that in mind, Q.”


	9. Under Control

He found several nervous Q Branch staff members hovering around the doorway when he got into work with the first cup of Earl Grey of the day in hand.

“Sir!” an intern called Susan called as she ran to meet him.  “Sir, we told him to get out, that he’s not authorized to be here and but he won’t cooperate!”

“Sorry, who?”

“007, sir.”

“Ah.  I see.  Not to worry.  Got it all under control.”  Q moved past the huddled group and into Q Branch to survey the damages.

Bond had swept everything, papers, supplies, knickknacks, _everything_ off Q’s desk and unceremoniously onto the floor so he could lie comfortably on his back, hands clasped behind his head like he was on his sofa at home.  Q felt the annoyance boiling up but focused on breathing as he made his way to the scene at the back of the office.  He needed to stay calm.  Exploding wouldn’t do but how someone could be so childish was beyond him.  Especially someone like Bond.

Bond’s eyes were shut and he didn’t make any sign that he had noticed Q’s approach.  Napping on his desk.  Ridiculous.  Q was going to murder him.

He grabbed his desk chair, making sure to bang it on the desk as he rolled it back and hung his bag on it.  Bond’s eyes flew open.

"Good morning, Q.” He propped himself up on his elbow and looked Q over.  “Don’t you look lovely?”

“Shut up, Bond.  What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

“On top of my desk?”

“Obviously.”

“ _Why_?”

“Why not? I was tired.”

“You’re a _child_.”

“You’re the one who said to come see you if I got bored.”

Q rubbed his forehead.  “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yep.”  Bond swung his legs over and sat up on the desk watching Q intently.

“No chance you’ll go home?”

“Nope.”

“Well, if you’re going to hang around, you’re going to be useful.  I’m going to give you stuff to do for me, you realise this?”

“I do.”

“Run errands.  Make me tea.  That sort of thing.”

“Fine.”

“Going to be quite dull.”

“Better than staying at home.”

“Right.  Well, you can start by putting everything back on my desk just as you found it, exactly.”  Bond glanced at the mess on the floor and back at Q with a look of suppressed horror.  “What, you don’t remember where everything was?  That’s too bad.  Have fun.”

Q pulled his desk chair a bit further from the desk and pulled out his tablet as Bond jumped off the table and stood next to the pile of desk junk, hands on his hips and glaring.  He suppressed a smirk.  Maybe Bond hanging around wouldn’t be so bad after all. 


	10. Things That Break

There was someone in his flat.  He lay unmoving in his bed flat on his back, glasses on, listening to the intruder move softly around the front room, currently walking around his sitting room and moving towards the kitchen.  Might possibly decide to take a right and move down the hallway towards the bedrooms but it doesn’t sound like it.

Deciding he wasn’t in immediate danger, he began to wonder what to do.  He never got around to getting a landline and a quick glance around confirmed he had indeed left his mobile on the coffee table or else on the kitchen counter.  Sooner or later the robber would move into the bedrooms and he’d get shot before he could even move.  Better to initiate confrontation on his own terms, he should think.

He quietly got out of bed and slid open his bedside table drawer where he kept his little MI6-issued Berretta.  He had never used the thing in his life but he had a working theoretical understanding and there was no time like the present.  He crept to the door and opened it silently, just enough so he could sneak by and into the hall where he pressed himself against the wall.  The burglar was rummaging around his cabinets in the kitchen, preoccupied and unawares.  Now or never.

Q took the monumental step out into the open holding the gun with both hands in front of him.

“Hands up. Turn around.” He could only hope the daring command sounded authoritative rather than merely a terrified squeak.

The large man at the counter turned and glanced at him before flicking on a light and going back to the task at hand.  “Evening, Q.  You’ve left the safety on, I think.”

“Bond?  What the hell – _what are you doing_?!”

“Making us tea.”

“But – what – _you broke into my flat_!”

“I was bored and–”

“I did say you could come see me when you’re bored.”  He dropped the gun on the counter and collapsed onto one of the stools at the bar, rubbing his forehead.  “Bond, do you know what time it is?”

“About 2 in the morning.” Bond brought over two mugs of tea, placing one in front of Q and leaning most of his weight onto his elbows against the counter.

“Right.  Isn’t this a bit ridiculous?”

“I suppose…”  Bond held his mug between his hands, staring into the steam rising from it.  Insufferable as always and couldn’t even admit he was wrong and this was totally inappropriate.  Q was fuming.

“Are you ever going to make me not regret saying you could come see me when you’re bored?”

Q instantly regretted saying that as soon as he saw the subtle change it brought about in Bond.  He looked distraught.  Shattered.  Like he thought he had royally messed up and Q would take back what he had offered him.  Q would have never thought of Bond as something that could break, but here he was, breaking in front of him.  He could only guess at what Bond was thinking through his hard exterior but he was staring into his tea like he wanted to drown himself in it because running out of the flat wasn’t fast enough and wouldn’t fix anything.

“Look, I… I would’ve regretted not saying it more.  Tonight was rather dull, you know, before you showed up and made it interesting.  Thank you for that.”

He looked up at Q, uncertainty lingering in those blue eyes.  Those could break too.  “So…”

“So I don’t really mind if you keep turning up.  As long as it’s not simply to annoy me.”

“Now why would I do that?”

They finished their tea in muffled silence.

“I don’t really know what you expected from me when you came over–” Q began.

“I don’t know either.”

“Well, then.  I’ve got work tomorrow so I really should be going back to bed.  You can let yourself out– however you got in.  Or you can stay the night, I suppose.  I keep up a spare bedroom, straight down the hall.  Always thinking I ought to get a roommate but never getting around to it.  Anyways, whichever you’re more inclined.”

The corner of Bond’s mouth turned up nearly an imperceptible degree.  “Thanks, Q.”

He left his mug on the counter for Bond to take care of, pushed away from the counter and padded back to bed.  He fell asleep instantly and in the morning he was shocked to find the spare bedroom slept in and one sleep-ruffled James Bond cooking breakfast in his kitchen.


	11. Brawler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm Q then the person I used to consider my Bond is ignoring me. It's just as well, they're moving away eventually anyways. Now I can focus on things that will better me instead of things that will only end, yeah?  
> Don't you wish we all had a Bond in our life?

Q wasn’t too concerned when he realised it was taking Bond longer than usual to come back with his tea.  He soon became concerned when he heard shouting echoing down the corridor.

He took off out of Q Branch towards the source of the noise, nearly positive that one of the voices was Bond’s and cursing that idiot for whatever stupid thing he had done now.  He rounded a corner just in time to see one of the other agents taking a swing and solidly connecting his meaty fist with Bond’s jaw.  Bond was swinging back with a counter attack before the other agent could even pull his arm away, punching him in the ribs and seizing his fist and twisting.  The other agent fell to his knees, hissing profanities through his clenched jaw.

“Alright, _alright_ , that’s enough!” Q shouted.  Bond slackened his grip and allowed himself to be pushed away so Q could stand between them.  “This is absolutely ridiculous.  You realise this is a _workplace_?  You’re lucky I don’t report you!  You’re not children – grow up for god’s sake!  You,” he addressed the other agent who was still knelling on the floor.  “Go back to work.”

“Yes, sir.” He thought the other agent might have sneered at him but he was too busy trying not to slap Bond, who was pinching a profuse nosebleed, to care. 

“You’re an idiot.” He said finally after the other agent disappeared from sight.

“And he’s a prick, he had it coming!  You know what he called–” Bond cut himself short.

“Called who what?”

“Never mind.  It’s nothing.  I left your tea in the kitchen…” Bond stalked off leaving Q to wonder what the other agent could have possibly said.

After some asking around, Q found out that Bond had overheard the other agent call Q a _pouf_ to some of his mates and had stood up for Q.  If Bond had read his file to get his address, as Q assumed he had, he probably also saw other such confidential information he had elected to reveal for security’s sake, namely his sexuality and former partners.  But an insult was an insult regardless of the truth behind it.  Q could never endorse senseless violence, but end-all-be-all he could not deny he was still a little flattered that Bond would defend him and his honour with his fists if need be. 


	12. Paperclips

Bond’s perfectly polished shoes were on his desk and the paperclips from his top desk-drawer were strewn about, bent and twisted together into demented wire shapes.  It was far too early, he had gotten far too little sleep and he really wasn’t in the mood for this kind of nonsense today.

“007.  What are you doing exactly?”

“Oh, hullo, Q.  These?  Prototypes.”

“For what?” Q put his bag down by his desk, dreading the answer.

“Dunno.  Tell you when I figure it out.”

“Right, well, technically you’re destroying MI6 property so you really ought to stop and do something useful while you’re–”

The rest of the paper clips scattered and bounced on the floor.  “ _You really don’t think I want to be doing something useful_?!”  Bond was on his feet, his hands pressed into the desk and melted the wood, his blue eyes hardenbed and cracked, his clenched jaw crushed his teeth crushed into splinters.  He was surrounded by glittering, skittish, twisted-metal animals that were frozen, pressing themselves into the carpet in fear of him.  Q Branch went immediately silent, its personnel making themselves smaller, unnoticeable, moving to the edges as far from the centre as possible and leaving Q to deal with Bond alone.

Bond glanced around the room at the stunned, wide-eyed faces surrounding him and deflated.  He sagged and sagged the more he looked until he locked eyes with Q.

“I’m… Q, I… I need…” His jaw worked, chewing the words that had failed him before he rushed out of Q Branch.  Q followed him before he could even think about it.

“007!  Bond!  Wait!”

Bond stopped but didn’t turn around as Q caught up to him.  “Bond, I’m sorry I said that.  You have been quite useful to me these past few weeks–”

“I haven’t been doing my job.”  Bond turned and all Q could see were the perfect shattered eyes.  “I’ve been stuck here.  I’m a field agent fucking around in Q Branch, how the fuck– how can I be useful – how can I be of any fucking use if I’m not doing my job – can’t even do my own damn job?”

More so than shout, Bond had thrown each exposed and fractured word down at Q’s feet.  Q had flinched at every impact and could feel them there now, melting into the carpet.  He wanted to look down at them but that would require looking away from Bond. 

“You can still do field work.”

“Do you really think that, Q?  Really?  Do you actually think so?”  He waited for Q to respond and filled the subsequent silence with a sigh.  “I just… I want another goddamn assignment.  I’m bloody fucking sick of this.”

“Look, you’ll get another assignment soon enough.  Until then, you’ll be assisting me and I can assure you you’ve been quite useful so far. Even if you hadn’t been doing everything to ensure I needn’t get up until lunch, I could at the very least accredit you with keeping things interesting.”  Q hoped for a smile but settled instead for the melting of blue eyes.

“Taking a walk.  Be back soon.”

“Alright.  Be a dear and bring me a cuppa when you come back, yeah?”

“Right.  Sorry about the mess.”

Q’s breath froze.  Another apology.  “’s fine.”  He could barely speak and definitely could not say the second time was a fluke as well.  He watched his agent walk away and wondered what on earth was wrong with him. 


	13. Company

About a week had passed since the last time Bond had broken in the middle of the night and Q was quietly losing hope that he would ever come back again and loudly denying he even had such hopes.  It was close to midnight and he was tired of pretending he wasn’t waiting up for Bond like he had every night since the first break-in.  He stepped out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth and froze. He was positive that he had already shut off the currently lit light in kitchen.

Bond was back.

Q padded into the kitchen and saw Bond setting his little breakfast table like he owned everything around him.

“Evening, Q.” Bond pulled back a chair for him before sitting down himself.  “I got take-away.  Hope you like Thai.”

“Bond.  It’s past midnight.”

“And?”

And it was too late for dinner as far as he was concerned and he should really be going to bed because he had work tomorrow but Bond was staring at him expectantly in one of his perfect suits with the table laid out perfectly and the Thai smelled quite good and what else could he do?

“Alright, sure.  What the hell.”  Q sat down at the place Bond has set directly to his right and allowed Bond to spoon some food onto his plate.  The spoon on the china cracked the silence spreading between them.

“Bond?  Why did you come here?”  The hesitant question had been burning him since the first nighttime visit and he had suddenly been stuck with enough foolish courage to ask it.  Now it was a soggy lump sitting in the centre of the thick quiet quickly filling the room.

“You see,” Bond said finally after an awkward anxiety-ridden moment.  “Hotel rooms get very lonely– boring.  Boring.  Very ridiculously boring.”  Bond viciously took a bite and Q was so relieved Bond had actually answered him he didn’t even think to question the obvious slip-up.

“A hotel?  You mean you can’t find a flat?”

“I’m procrastinating.  It’s hard to keep up a flat when you’re constantly traveling half-way around the globe.  Or at least used to.”

“You know, you could just stay here.” The knot in his stomach became electric when he made the impulsive offer and the words were practically falling out of his mouth.  “I mean, I think I might have mentioned before I was looking for a flatmate.  That’s why I’ve been keeping up the second bedroom you stayed in last time.  It’s a penthouse flat so I’ve got more space than I know what to do with, you wouldn’t be a bother, honest.”

“And there’d be company.”

“Well, that too, yes.”

“Might have to take you up on that offer, Q.”

Later, after the dishes had been stacked in the dishwasher and the leftovers were left to grow cold and soggy in the fridge and Q was lying in bed listening to the unfamiliar footsteps of another person moving about the flat and the oddly mundane, domestic sounds of one of the world’s most dangerous men getting ready for bed, Q wondered if Bond would actually stay and, more importantly, what exactly made him offer Bond his spare room.  He eventually settled on the explanation that Bond was his agent and it was his job to take care of him.  Deep down he knew it had more to do with Bond’s unintentional confession that had slipped out without permission, that they both shared, and that Q could no more admit to himself or anyone else than could Bond.


	14. Babysitter

An email from M always made Q nervous, like unexpected letters home from school when he was a child.  He rarely had done something wrong but on the contrary such mail always offered _heart-felt congratulations_ , some wonderful opportunity or were totally irrelevant.  Q took a breath and clicked it open.

This message was neither.  Apparently Q’s attentiveness towards Bond was keeping him occupied and away from M and several other MI6 staff members of note, something which M did not overlook and for which was sorely grateful.

“ _Keep up the good work_.” the letter read. “ _We’ve been looking for a good “_ babysitter _” for 007 for ages and I can’t think of anyone better suited.  Expect a raise starting next quarter for all your trouble._ ”

 _Babysitter_.  He thought it was meant in jest but it was difficult to tell.  The word jolted through him and left him blinking blankly, helplessly at the screen while it bounced around his brain.  _Babysitterbabysitterbabysitterbabysitterbabysitterbabysitter_.  The more he thought about it, the more he came to realise that yes, he was Bond’s babysitter.  But wasn’t that a Quartermaster’s job, to look after his agents?

Q glanced over at his charge in question, dozing at the empty desk next to his over a bit of busy-work reading he had told him to do to shut him up for a bit.  If this was seen as _babysitting_ , then so be it.  At least he was getting a raise out of it.


	15. Perfect

Q couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he started to think of Bond as _perfect_ as much as he may try.  Admittedly, he was insufferable at times, he could be a right prick, he acted like a child, he was moody and sometimes seemed incapable of civilised behaviour or of cleaning up after himself but to Q he was still _perfect_.  Sometime after Bond took a nap on his desk but before Q had been dubbed official _babysitter,_ Bond became perfect despite everything.  The man with perfect suits and perfectly shined shoes.  Perfectly shaven face.  Perfect blue eyes to say everything for him.  Perfect posture, perfect composure.  Perfect cooking and a perfect taste in books that were read with a perfectly brewed cup of coffee.  Perfect lips Q could hardly keep himself from kissing and perfect hands he could hardly keep from holding.

Around the time Bond became perfect, Q thought he noticed Bond watching him with increasing frequency which had been cause of considerable alarm.  He’d look up and see a flash of blue when Bond looked away at nothing in particular, leaving him to wonder, _have I got something on my face – perhaps my shirt?_   Eventually, Bond began to hold his gaze for a fraction of a second and smile his perfect half-smile like he was glad he got caught and wanted Q to know he was looking.  It didn’t matter if they were at MI6 or at Q’s flat or anywhere in between, Bond would probably stop and watch him like some fascinating new puzzle.

Suddenly Bond became much more interested in Q Branch than the rest of MI6.  His daytime wanderings of the rest of the bunker had ceased in favour of staying in the chair he would pull up so he could sit at Q’s elbow and fiddle with prototypes he found on the desk as he watched Q work and he hardly ever seemed bored.

If Bond wasn’t Bond, Q would have ordinarily have assumed the cause of such behaviour was a crush, that Bond had a crush on him.  But this was Bond, the accomplished hit-man lady-killer sex-addict who could be confirmed as totally heterosexual given all past actions.  The idea that Bond had a crush on him was absolutely outlandish.  Impossible.  So he forgot about it and wrote every stare off as some weird Bond thing.  He would’ve have given anything to know for sure that was all it was.

Q remained confused by Bond’s most recent antics and smitten with his undoubtable perfection and strangely pleased when Bond’s things began finding their way into his apartment. His shaving kit and toothbrush appeared in their bathroom and his clothes in the closet and his books on the coffee table.  Bond was moving in with him.  They drank tea together and ate take-out together when Bond didn’t feel like cooking and went to and from work together and they were happy.  That was all he really needed to know.


	16. RB

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I've really got no excuse for updating so infrequently. It's getting sticky. Thanks for sticking with me in the meantime, dearies.

“And he holds the box of chocolates out to her, just like I told him, grinning like a moron and she just kind of looks at the basket and looks at him and says, ‘Thanks, Bill, but I’m actually allergic’.  And just walks off.”  Bond pauses in his story long enough to laugh with Q for a moment.  “So now he’s standing there, slack-jawed, pink in the face, stuck with this frilly heart-shaped box of chocolates and nothing to do with it.  Imagine what he must have looked like walking back to his desk.”

They both roared with laughter on either end of the couch with a glass of scotch in hand.  Q had tears in his eyes and blinked them away as he took another sip.

“That’s wasn’t very nice, Bond.”

“He never asked if she was allergic.”

“True.  Eve Moneypenny and Bill Tanner… Can you even picture it?  God, that’d be awful.”

“Right.  See, Q, I’m doing everyone a service by not telling Tanner she was allergic.  Ought to get a medal or something for putting a stop to it.”

“Well, I dunno about that.”

“You know, she fancies you, Q.”

“Ah. Well,” Q straightened up and set his glass on the table.  “Not really my type.”

“No, I guess not–” Bond was cut off an alarm that suddenly rang through the flat from Q’s closed laptop on top of the coffee table.  Q grabbed it and flipped it open, quickly bypassing various encryptions to find the source.

“My god.  Someone’s trying to breach one of my firewalls.  They’re actually trying to hack into the MI6 mainframe – from a tablet, it looks like.  How cute.”  He could hardly contain his laughter as his fingers flew across the keys and he sent into motion a dozen different programs.  He glanced up and saw Bond’s mildly horrified face.  “Oh, not to worry.  Everything’s under control.  No security system is complete without a good offense and I’ve designed an excellent one.  I’ve already infected the device with one of my viruses so that it’s frozen and basically only good for an oversized paper weight.  I’m currently tracking the IP address and with any luck we’ll know their name, location and so forth in a few minutes and we can send someone to collect them.”

“That’s…”

“Impressive?  Yes, I know.  Not to be conceited, I rather outdid myself, didn’t I? Ah, here we are.”  A small window opened up containing the information gathered about the particular IP address.  Q narrowed his eyes.  The window was mostly empty.  “Well this is unfortunate.  No name or anything.  Just the coordinates where the device was last located which appears to be somewhere in Paris.  This, of course, means we’re not dealing with any kind of amateur – Oh, wait, hang on.  There’s two letters.  R B.  Do you know…?”

Bond shook his head.

“No…?  Right, I’ll run a search on the database.  And I need to contact M.  Feel like going to Paris, Bond?  Looks like you might have a mission on your hands.”

Q looked up at Bond again and knew he would have done absolutely anything for Bond to always be as happy as he looked then.


End file.
